


Too late now

by Tanachvil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bloodplay, Claws, Dubious Consent, F/M, dub con, young Sybill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-03
Updated: 2012-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-17 16:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanachvil/pseuds/Tanachvil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's too late for him, too late for her and absolutely too late for them. Too much blood has flown between their first encounter, twenty years ago, and the Battle of Hogwarts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too late now

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a challenge on the main Italian fanfic archive, EFP and I loved writing about such an unusual pairing.  
> English is not my native language and this story was in need of a good beta reading, but unfortunately I couldn't find anyone for that job, so, if you want to give me some advice and point out mistakes or inaccuracies, you're very welcome to do that and I would really appreciate it.

“So, little thing... Shall we play?” 

He looks at me like I’m something to eat, something to devour and shred to pieces, something soft and juicy, and my legs give up.  
I fall.  
The leaves are slippery and my hands drown in the mud, but there is not time to notice much, because he’s suddenly on me and the game begins.

Everything is vivid and clear, like it happened just a moment ago and not more than twenty years in the past. Vivid like a nightmare.  
No, not a nightmare, a memory.  
I memory I cannot afford, now.

 

Now.  
The castle resounds with battle and fury, the walls are trembling with the force of a hundred curses, the school wards are crackling and burning.  
I've never really been a challenge with a wand in my hand, I learned that a long time ago.  
It doesn't mean I’m not going to fight.

 _Oh, Sybill, just give up. Read your cards, use your crystal balls..._  
Naturally. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.  
Tonight I shall not look into the future, tonight there are not tea leaves or dreams to tell me what is to be done. The Inner Eye won’t show visions of tomorrow, no prophecies or omens, just the target to hit.

I lean over the balcony and rise the first sphere.

Nobody looks at me, no one pays attention. I’m the poor, harmless, useless Sybill, with her tarot deck and sherry bottles hidden under the table.  
Oh, that’s fine, keep looking somewhere else, keep thinking I’m still hidden in my tower, while the Castle fights for its life. My castle, my home, my Hogwarts.

The first sphere crashes to the ground and the crystal sounds like vengeance and fury.  
Now you’re listening, aren't you? Now you’re forced to pay attention.  
I rise the second sphere and this time I strike true. The black clad rat goes down, BAM!  
Ah! Come on, Sybill, let’s do that again!

“ I've got plenty more!” I shout, while I rise the third crystal. “Plenty more if you want it! Take this!”  
I hit another one, just a sideswipe, but he stumbles away, unable to stand properly.  
They’re looking at me, now - of course they do - and soon they’ll come to get me.  
It doesn’t matter.  
I don’t know how tonight’s going to end. I don’t know if I live or die, if Hogwarts falls or prevails, fate is hidden to me. The Eye is blinded by the battle.  
I know that I won’t go quietly, they’ll never have me without a fight.

And then I see him.  
He runs into the hall and everyone turns to look. Battle freezes around him. For a brief moment, everything is still and frightened and I freeze too, while the growl from his throat makes everyone around him tremble with fear.  
He doesn’t strike, not yet, he smells at the air, patiently, and then steps forward.  
The crystal shards of my sphere are just at his feet, he looks at them, scattered on the floor, and then he looks up.  
I’m here, Fenrir, finally. Now I want to play.

Come and get me.

It’s just an instant, but it’s enough. He looks at me and his mouth twists into a feral grin, then he rises his hand, his tongue darts out, licking those claws with slow, calculated movements, never leaving my eyes.  
It’s just an instant, but I’m there again, twenty years ago, in the woods, in the clearing between the holm oaks.

*

“So, little thing... Shall we play?”

It’s raining, the leaves are damp beneath me and I feel like I’m drowning in mud while he grasps my hair and drags me forward the trees.  
My legs still won’t cooperate, but my hands are trying to fight: I strike randomly and I try to hold on to something, anything.

“I just asked for a prophecy, just that. It wasn’t much, wasn’t it?” His voice is like gravel and sand, muffled by the sound of falling rain.  
He lets go of my hair and my head bumps on a rock. It hurts, but I don’t care. He straddles me and that’s really more frightening that a head trauma.  
In the darkness of the forest I can’t see a thing, he knocked my glasses off with the first blow of the back of his hand, when he came out of nowhere.

I shouldn’t have been so stupid, so foolish, leaving like that, alone.

My cards had seen this, but I wasn’t listening, I couldn’t understand.  
Too young, too young and naive to see the warning between promises.  
 __  
Two of diamonds, the meeting.  
Eight of spades, dangerous temptation.  
Jack of hearts, a man, a stranger.

*

The stranger came first, at the pub, while I was heading to Scotland. I was never much of a fan of Disapparation and I was just traveling, enjoying the road and the end of summer.  
He had came closer to my table, glancing at my cards, then he had smiled.  
It was not a pleasant smile, not reassuring nor sincere, I thought, but fascinating, dangerous, wild.  
Oh, how much I’d always loved dangerous and unknowns things! After all, future is a path made of temptations, of dangerous unknown things to unveil, of secrets to whisper in the dark. Secrets that no one should know, but I bring to light just by the turning of my cards, closing my eyes and looking inside.  
They don’t believe me, they never did. Of course they don’t, it’s the Curse of Cassandra, as we Seers call it.  
I was traveling to Scotland, that night, there was a new possibility unraveling itself before me, a new future. Hogwarts Headmaster wanted to see me.  
The stranger sat beside the fire, never taking his eyes off me, and every thought of Hogwarts and interviews and Albus Dumbledore, just evaporated, blown away by the heat in those golden eyes.

Golden.  
 _Golden_!  
How stupid and blind can you be, when you don’t want to see?  
They were yellow wolf eyes, vicious eyes telling tales of blood and hunt, but I just saw the light from the fire reflected in two golden irises, looking at me across the room, and I blushed.

I blushed.  
Idiot.  
Stupid, blind Seer.  
Ironic, isn’t it?

 

“What are those pretty cards saying, little birdie?”  
The hall was almost empty, it was late.  
It had started to rain heavily and the downpour hitting the windows made it sound like we were on a ship, in the middle of a storm.  
I didn’t answer, I smiled and he leaned on the table, towards me.

“You won’t tell me a thing? Not even a prophecy, a little one?”  
I knew the tone of mockery in his voice, I had heard it much too often and I didn’t like it.

“Prophecies don’t come on call, and you should know it...?”  
“Fenrir,” and his voice gave me the chills, like he was whispering me something obscene and intimate, something that had to do with skin and claws and sweat and muffled screams in the night, not his name.  
“...you should know it, Fenrir.”

Silly, blind Seer.  
I was playing, but I was never any good at that game. I smiled, brushed fingers through my hair, and he looked at me, coming closer and closer, making me feel less sure of what I was doing with every inch he won.

No one else was left in the hall, the fire was almost dead, the pub was silent and my courage had failed me.  
I stood up, smiling, and with my stomach knotted like a Grindylows nest, I took my cape and my bag, then walked through the door as quick as I could. I didn’t want to spend another minute in that place, not after the last hour.

It was there, all around him, danger radiated from his hands, his teeth, his arms, like light from a torch. The voice inside me, the one that usually spoke when I looked through the crystal sphere, when I gazed into dreams, was practically screaming at that point.  
 _Go away!_  
Run!  
Now!  
And so I went, clumsy and babbling, through the door and then under the pouring rain, away and fast.  
Not enough.  
He had got me at the edge of the forest, just before I could Disapparate.

*

Blood runs so fast in my veins, that I think I’m going to explode. I try to speak, to say something, anything, but I just manage to squeak, and he laughs at me.  
Straddling me, in the mud and the rain, he laughs.  
“Sybill, Sybill...” His voice strokes me and scratches at my insides, while he moves a strand of hair away from my eyes. “Little, fragile, delicious Sybill...”

His hand is on my face, and then a single finger, tracing the contour of my ear, so lightly that I almost can’t feel it. It stops where my neck begins, where my blood is pulsing like mad. There I can feel it, his claws, all of a sudden, when with a single finger he starts to descend, impossibly slow on my neck and down.

I scream.  
I find my voice, this time.  
When I try to struggle he grasps my hair with his free hand.  
His claw is going on, down, from ear to neck, from neck to shoulder, and I can feel my skin ripping, opening to the air.  
I’m not surprised by pain, but by heat.  
My blood is a sudden warm surprise, and rain doesn’t wash it away quickly enough.

I hear him take a deep breath, so close to me that when he finally exhales he blows on my open wound and I scream again.  
This time it’s not from fear, not from pain, but it’s a scream I myself can’t hear.  
My voice is deep now, hoarse, a voice that doesn’t belong entirely to me.  
It’s my inner voice, the one that was yelling at me, telling me to run, the one that tried to warn me, the one that now talks for him, only for him, deep from within me, from the bowels of the earth underneath. 

Prophecy awakens and he’s swept away, powerless and overwhelmed.

When I come back to myself I’m still on the ground, in the mud, but he’s standing, two steps afar, and he looks at me like I am the dangerous wild thing here, like I was the one attacking him.  
I’m Destiny, lurking in the night.

In his golden eyes, in his yellow eyes, there is that look, the one of who has heard me speak with the Voice from the Depth, the one of someone who has listened to his future on my lips, and I can see fear in those eyes.  
My blood is warm and is dripping from the wound on my neck, but I can’t think of nothing apart that it will scar, If I live enough to heal, if I live enough to see dawn.  
I want that scar. I want to live enough to see it and wear it with joy.

I stand up, using the tree behind me to help me. My legs are still useless, but I can manage to support my own weight and not crumble immediately to the ground. It’s a small victory.

I don’t know where I find the nerve to speak, but I do it.  
“What I’ve said to you is yours and yours alone. You wanted a prophecy and a prophecy you got.”  
I look up to him, right in the eye.  
He takes a step towards me, then another one.  
I’m not afraid this time, perhaps I’m beyond fear or perhaps what I see in his eyes gives me strength.

Oh, I know what you are, Fenrir. I know now.

The irony of the situation it’s not lost to me, now that you, the wolf, look at me like my words could kill, like I had daggers on my lips and knowledge of everything you’re afraid to know.  
What did I said to you, Fenrir? What omen have you heard to put that look in your eyes?

He comes closer, one step is enough, and his hand comes to touch the wound that he just made on my neck.

Now I should run.  
I should run away screaming.  
I close my eyes, instead, while he crashes onto me, and I’m waiting for his teeth to tear my flesh apart, I wait for his claws to carve the life out of me.

It doesn’t happen.  
It’s not his teeth on my neck, but his tongue, licking blood away, starting down low on my clavicle, and up until he meets my ear. The low growl that he makes, just a breath away from my earlobe, shatters what’s left of my control.

I barely notice that my robe tears in his hands like it was made of paper.  
I don’t care, it doesn’t matter.  
What matters are his hands on me, on my skin that’s still wet and plastered with mud. He grasps a nipple with his fingers and I feel a scratch, a piercing ache that stings for just a moment and I let out a strangled moan that sounds nothing like a protest.  
Then I can scream no more, nor talk or complain, because his mouth captures mine and I’m pressed against the tree behind me so heavily that I can feel the bark leaving marks on my back.  
He tastes like firewhiskey and blood. My blood.

There’s a voice inside me, a weak, neglected voice, telling me that the appropriate reaction would be disgust, repulsion, but I can’t feel it. I’m not listening and I shut it out once and for all, when I let him pick me up and I wrap my legs around his waist.

Everything becomes faster, after that, pure instinct that I really don’t know where I got from: my hands on his back, my nails scratching his skin, he replies pushing me harder against the tree and mumbling something I don’t understand, that I really don’t care to listen.

There’s not time to wonder what am I doing, under the pouring rain, in the middle of the forest, with Fenrir Greyback between my legs, my robe shredded to pieces and his mouth on me, tongue licking, teeth biting and heavy breathing while I feel his hand coming between us and tear apart the last layer of clothing still keeping us apart.  
I’m thinking that, even if I wanted, now there really is no turning back, and I’m happy, relieved.  
I have no choice, now, so I can’t blame myself. I gave up control, gave up entirely and I feel, for the first time, no regrets and no shame.  
I’m prey, voluntary victim, I surrender with no guilt and no remorse.

His hand pulls, and my underwear gives up. The sound is so common, so ordinary, under the roaring rain, it sends an electric spark through my spine and I really don’t know if it’s me moving to meet him or if he’s pushing me further, spreading me apart, until I can feel him inside me.

 

That’s when the forest comes alive and we can hear footsteps and someone yelling.  
“Stupefy!”

Fenrir lets go of me, abruptly, and I fall to the ground.

“There he is! There!” someone is yelling.  
“He’s running away! Stop him!” Someone else, a bit further.

“Holy Circe! Get me a cloak, a blanket, something!” This voice is much closer.

I don’t open my eyes.

“Hey Miss... Merlin’s sake, she’s hurt, she’s bleeding!”

It’s nothing, really, but it’ll leave a scar. It’s fine.

They carry me inside, give me something to drink, and I can taste the potion that puts me to sleep.

It’s daylight when I wake up.  
I’m fine, I’m perfectly fine. I’m warm and clean, but they ask me questions.  
Of course he attacked me.  
Of course I was lucky.  
“Sean told us that he saw Greyback going out just after you, you know? We didn’t like it and we followed. We’re really sorry, we should have come sooner, miss, really really sorry.”

Yeah, right.

*

Now.

Now he looks at me, he looks up and he sees me, with the crystal in my hands reflecting the light of a thousand spell flying around us. He sees me and he smiles, while he licks at the claws of his bloody hand.

It’s late, Fenrir. It’s too late.

You think I’m going to smile back? You think that your golden eyes - yellow, Sybill, yellow - will be enough to make me miss my target?  
No.  
Not after what you've done.  
Not after the half devoured children, left to rot in their cribs, not after your claws have ripped at too much flesh, too many hearts to count, not after you came here into my school, my house, my Hogwarts, to bring slaughter and death.

You can read it in my eyes and your smile dies instantly.

Did I predict this moment to you?  
Was this what you were so afraid of?  
I’ll never know.

I rise my sphere, it shines like a dying star in the red light of a passing curse and it comes to meet you, fast, heavy and lethal. The sound it makes when it crushes you is the sound of pain and broken bones, it’s wet, horrible and glorious, and absolutely fatal.

You fall.  
You don’t get up.

I fall too, taking shelter behind the balcony, and I wait.  
I’m out of crystals and they’ll come to get me soon enough.

I grasp my wand and I’m scared, but I’ll fight.  
Between the crystal shards and debris of the castle coming apart, I’ll fight.  
I can not say the same of you anymore, Fenrir.  
I can’t see you anymore, hidden behind the balcony I can’t see your body lying on the cold stones, I don’t know if you’re bleeding, if you’re still breathing. It’s not my responsibility anymore.

It was a prophecy you wanted and a prophecy you had.

I bring a hand to my neck, where twenty years ago your claw marked me.  
I close my eyes and I breath in deeply, while I start to hear the footsteps of someone approaching.

I hold my wand and think that, if fate is on my side, I’ll live to see dawn.  
I fate is on my side, I’ll fight and I won’t fall.  
I’m ready to be hurt, cursed and wounded and I’m not scared, not anymore.

After all, I’ve learned long ago, it will be just another scar to wear.


End file.
